


Gravity

by laetificat



Category: Farscape
Genre: Clothed Sex, Dubious Consent, Kneeling, Loyalty Kink, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Service Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-12 23:39:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18456989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laetificat/pseuds/laetificat
Summary: In the foundations of their relationship, Braca and Scorpius come to an understanding about each other.





	Gravity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hearteating](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearteating/gifts).



“I have the report you asked for, sir.” Braca sets the handheld screen on the desk, tenting his fingers over it before sliding it a little way towards Scorpius. “The Luxan’s son has been added to a lot of 10,000 Banik slaves. With your permission, I will begin negotiations for their purchase.” 

Scorpius pulls the report in front of him, scanning it briefly before nodding. 

“Very good, Lieutenant.” He pauses, then settles back a little in his chair. It’s quiet, late in the Command Carrier’s artificial night-cycle, but Scorpius works on his own schedule and rarely needs more than an hour or so of rest. Braca has gradually adapted to it, enabling him to be ready whenever Scorpius might need him.

Scorpius taps the desk thoughtfully, then fixes Braca with a glance. Braca steels himself against the urge to return his stare, fixing his own gaze on the bulkheads behind him, his body in the easy ready-attention stance that’s as natural as breathing. 

“Do you realise, Lieutenant,” Scorpius continues, “that once we have the wormhole technology in our grasp, we will have a weapon to rival anything in the known galaxy? In one single leap, the Peacekeepers will secure their place as the rulers of their entire domain.” 

Braca knows better than to respond to Scorpius’ comments, aware that his own thoughts are neither wanted or needed. Scorpius drums his fingers over the desk, then stands and walks slowly towards Braca. As always, Braca feels the prickling tension of his presence as he approaches, like the warmth of a fire, a distant star, on his skin.

Scorpius stops in front of him, close enough that Braca can smell his unique scent, dry and reptilian and faintly spicy, overlaid with the smell of the coolant chemicals running through his suit and skull implants.

“Look at me, Braca,” Scorpius commands.

It takes Braca a moment to even attempt it, fighting protocol ingrained so deep it’s almost in his DNA. He drags his gaze off of the bulkheads, his heartbeat rising tight and hard in his chest. Scorpius, however, is impatient. His hand shoots out, striking Braca around the throat and gripping him under his jaw. 

Scorpius leans in close, snarling. “You will look at me!”

Choking, pulse singing in his ears, Braca does as ordered, getting a blurry glimpse of white skin and black leather and a wild anger in Scorpius’ eyes. Scorpius holds him there for a few microts, teeth bared and buried deep in Braca’s soul, then throws him to the floor, hard. 

Braca curls up on the metal grating, wheezing hoarsely, as Scorpius walks away.

*

It had been easier the first time he met Scorpius.

He had been lower in rank then, just another born and bred footsoldier on his way to Lieutenant, his life made up of drills and duty and a restless, hungry ambition. His squad had been given escort duty for a visiting Commander, who had brought along a new recruit; a creature that had, according to rumor, given First Command the key to unlocking Scarran defenses across the sector. 

Braca remembers the way Scorpius had walked, enduring the subtle glances of the soldiers and the way they had been careful not to touch him, even accidentally; parting the crowd like a Yennik shark in a shoal of fish, all the time with a spine straight in silent terrible dignity. Braca had felt his own surge of disgust at the sight of him, the forbidden hybrid, his pure Sebacean genes corrupted by the animal ridges of the Scarran. Disgusting. Illogical. Yet, somehow, compelling. His very existence was a question that begged to be answered.

As he made his way down the line Scorpius had met the eyes of each of them, seemingly daring them to look away. Braca had wondered at the bitter taste of that victory and the way Scorpius had bared his teeth in a silent snarl as one by one, the soldiers refused his gaze. 

Eventually, Scorpius reached Braca’s position. Alone, Braca had stared into those dark eyes, so Sebacean amid his Scarran-ravaged features, and held them. Had, slowly, raised his hand in the proper salute. 

He had been rewarded with a flash of those pointed teeth -- this time in a slow, pleased smile.

*

As a Lieutenant, Braca is allowed the honor of having his own quarters. It is strange to be alone after so many cycles of communal living -- the life of a Peacekeeper is not a private one -- but he soon learns to enjoy having the small space.

And, even more than the privacy, he learns the value and shame of being able to find release for himself in the darkness during those rare hours when he should be sleeping; one hand stuttering under the blankets, hot wetness coating his palm, the other touching the bruises on this throat as he gasps out Scorpius’ name. 

*

“There’s a certain irony to it, don’t you think, Lieutenant?” 

Braca blinks, straightening a little. He’s become used to being addressed in this way. Scorpius has a habit of picking up stray thoughts like a child gathering insects to study, sequestering them away for a while before bringing them out again and turning them over to see what they’re made of. 

This time it’s less clear than usual what he’s referring to, so: “sir?”

“To my actions unlocking the key to Peacekeeper dominance,” Scorpius explains from his position on the low couch. He is being ministered to by one of his medical staff, one of a rotation of younger officers who have been picked for the position or been given it as a punishment. Braca has learned to make sure they’re not the type who would be missed should something go wrong.

The young officer deftly takes the used cooling rod from the setting in Scorpius’ skull-mounted array and sets it aside. She gently wipes excess lubricants and cooling gel from her hand and the side of Scorpius’ head. Braca tries not to watch her fingers as she does so.

“The irony is,” Scorpius continues, “that the Peacekeepers should take on a creature such as myself, who embodies not only the genetic impurity which they so despise, but also the very enemy they seek most eagerly to destroy.”

“I would call that a good decision, sir,” Braca points out. 

Scorpius makes a thoughtful noise, then hisses softly as the medical officer sets the array whirring back into his skull. 

“I suppose you would, Lieutenant,” he says.

Braca dismisses the young officer with a flick of his eyes, not enjoying the way she lingers over setting the medical equipment back in its case, the covert glances at Scorpius from heavy-lidded eyes. He watches her as she leaves, the doors whispering shut behind her. 

He returns his attention to Scorpius to find the half-Scarran’s eyes on him, looking at him with a narrow thoughtfulness.

Braca swallows; clears his throat. “Sir? Is there -- do you need anything?”

“Not at all, Lieutenant. I was merely thinking.” Scorpius leans back a little on the couch, bringing his feet up. “How long have you served me, Braca?”

“Three.. four cycles, I believe, sir.”

“And you, alone, of all of my staff, requested the post instead of being forced into it.” Scorpius tilts his head a little. There’s something anticipatory about him; almost predatory. His focus is intense. Braca, to his frustration, feels his body begin to respond, anticipation riding up the insides of his thighs. Scorpius doesn’t seem to notice, or hides it well if he does. Instead, he continues speaking. “Why?”

“I.. I wanted the opportunity, sir. The way they talked about you -- your ideas. I wanted to be part of that. Sir.” It is most of the truth, at least. 

Scorpius nods slowly.

“Come here, Braca,” he says. His finger points to a place on the floor beside his couch. 

Braca crosses the short distance between them, obedient as a Luxan scent-hound. He doesn’t bother to speculate what Scorpius might want, but only prepares himself for the next order. 

Scorpius takes a little time in giving it. Then, finally, he points again. “Kneel.”

For a microt, Braca is convinced he has misheard. His heart skips a beat in his chest, then resumes beating at a stronger pace. Surely not? 

“Sir?” His voice catches on the word so it comes out as more of a squeak. But he wants -- needs -- to be sure. 

Scorpius’ eyes narrow slightly. “Kneel,” he repeats, the very edge of a growl in his throat. 

Braca is not a man who has ever in his life needed to be told a third time. He lowers himself to his knees, slowly. The floor is cold and hard even through his uniform; ridges of metal bite into him and he knows that he will bruise. Scorpius’ couch is at roughly chest height, so Scorpius doesn't really need to move when he reaches out to touch Braca’s cheek with the backs of his gloved fingers, sliding down to hold his chin and turn his face a little, from side to side, as if studying his conformation. 

“What do you want, Lieutenant?” Scorpius asks, his voice low and resonant. His thumb presses into Braca’s jaw. 

“I -- I want to help you, sir,” Braca gasps around the sudden dryness of his throat. “That's all I.. I want.” 

“And is that.. truly.. all you want, Lieutenant?” Scorpius’ voice is a distant purr. He lets go of Braca's chin and skates his fingertips over Braca's mouth. Braca hears himself make a small, high pitched sound, half convinced he's in a dream. Certainly this is very much like the sort of things he's dreamed about, over and over. Except --

Scorpius’ fingers pause on Braca's lower lip. The corners of his mouth curl upwards, a shark's smile full of teeth; pleased and curious and deadly. Braca has seen that smile before, with prisoners and test subjects: he knows that Scorpius finds pleasure in seeing how far he can go, how much it takes before the object of his attention relents. Or breaks. 

The thought that he is, however briefly, the subject of that attention, the thing that Scorpius wants -- even if it's to splinter and use and leave discarded --

Braca opens his mouth, slightly, enough to slip his tongue out to touch the tips of Scorpius's fingers. He tastes leather, chemicals, corrosive metals. He hears Scorpius make a noise, almost a snarl, as his eyes slip closed because he can't do this and look at Scorpius at the same time while still having some fragile control over himself. 

Scorpius pushes, his fingers sliding into Braca's mouth, on the edge of uncomfortable. His senses fill up with Scorpius, taste and touch and smell. Braca is, perhaps, a little too eager, practically trembling: he rolls his tongue around Scorpius's fingertips, suckling and licking. Daring, he closes his mouth a little, bites down; Scorpius hisses. His other hand slips around the back of Braca’s skull, holding him still. Braca feels drool slide out of the corners of his mouth as Scorpius pushes his hand further in, until Braca has to breathe out of his nose and concentrate to keep from panicking at the sensation of choking. His cock throbs between his legs, painfully hard.

Then, abruptly, Scorpius pulls away, wet fingers withdrawing. Braca blinks his eyes open to see Scorpius raising his hand to his own lips, pointed tongue flicking out, and Braca can’t stop himself from groaning at the sight of it. 

Scorpius looks at him as he slips his index finger into his mouth, as if cleaning himself after a particularly good meal. He tilts his head a little as he withdraws it, then wipes his hand on his thigh. Braca realises belatedly that Scorpius has moved so he’s sitting on the edge of the couch, one foot either side of Braca’s knees. 

“I’ve always been fascinated by Sebacean physiology,” Scorpius says, as if it’s been something they’ve been discussing all along. He reaches out again, traces his fingertips over the side of Braca’s face. Braca steels himself not to lean into it. His chin and mouth are wet; his breathing is fast and tight in his chest. 

“So fragile,” Scorpius continues, “for a warrior race, don’t you think? Even after all these cycles of controlled breeding, vulnerabilities are maintained. Almost.. revered.” His fingers dance over Braca’s temple, tracing the outline of his eye socket, down his jaw. “Soft skin, vulnerable organs, no armor plating or redundancies. Every part.. vital.”

“Yes.. yes, sir,” Braca sighs.

Slowly, Scorpius’s hand drifts downwards, around Braca’s throat.

A sudden noise behind them -- the doors opening. Braca almost starts up, guilty and ashamed, but Scorpius's grip tightens immediately; not enough to choke but just enough to hold him, kneeling, between his legs, his arousal plain even through the leather uniform.

“Commander?” The voice is young, hesitant. A junior officer. Braca trembles, gasps silently, imagining her expression as she faces the sight of Scorpius with Braca between his legs. Is she shocked? Disgusted to see a Lieutenant subservient to a Scarran half-breed? Or has she become used to Scorpius’ unique pleasures? And if she walks closer, if she sees --

“You will leave the report on the desk, soldier,” Scorpius orders, glancing up and over Braca’s head. His thumb strokes down the side of Braca’s neck; once, twice. A test or a threat. Braca stifles the urge to moan, his hands clenching and unclenching on his knees. Somehow the thought of being witnessed in this state inflames him even more, shame and desire molten in his belly. A silent plea rises in his mind, a single pulsing need: yes, please, yes.

Then, footsteps; tentative, a little too slow. The noise of a report pad being set on the surface of the desk. A pause.

Scorpius’ grip tightens, enough to raise Braca up from his sitting position, panting. Braca’s hips roll forward; he hears himself whine, high and desperate. “Leave,” Scorpius snarls.

“Is there anything else, sir --” 

“Leave. Us.” The growl in Scorpius’ voice resonates through Braca’s chest, down into his gut, tightening between his legs. The footsteps hurry away, followed by the whisper of the doors. In a distant part of his mind, Braca is almost sorry to hear it.

Scorpius relents a little, enough to allow Braca to slide down onto his heels, but doesn’t release him. His fingertips press into Braca’s jugular. His other hand drifts to his own crotch, moving briefly with small sounds of leather and metal. He tosses the codpiece aside. Another brief movement; Scorpius hisses between his teeth. 

“Open your mouth.” 

Braca doesn’t hesitate to obey, understanding what’s about to happen, and Scorpius’ hand is on the back of his skull again, pulling him forward and down; Scorpius’ cock is sliding between his lips, slim and pointed and almost startlingly hot. Braca compensates automatically, hollowing out his cheeks and throat, tongue sliding over hard ridges, tasting harsh salt and breathing in the smell of Scorpius in desperate snorts as his face presses against the coolant suit. 

Scorpius lets out a noise above him, somewhere between a sigh of pleasure and a hiss. His fingers dig into Braca’s scalp, moving, encouraging him to move. Braca knows what to do -- it’s been a few arns, but no officer is above asking certain favors of his subordinates and that ambition burning in his chest had allowed him to say yes more than once, but this is different, agreement of another kind, longing answered and inspired. He reaches out clumsily, finding and gripping Scorpius’ boots, giving himself leverage as he leans into it. 

“So eager.. aahh.. Lieutenant, very good,” Scorpius breathes. His cock radiates tingling heat into Braca’s lips and throat, far warmer than Sebacean skin. Braca laps at it, craving the warmth, running his tongue over a series of blunt points along the underside as he moves up and down. Scorpius hisses again at that, shifting on the couch, now allowing Braca to set his own pace.

Braca drifts a little, suspended in the orbit of sensation: the ache of muscles and tendons stretched; hard leather beneath his hands; cold pain in his knees and building in his jaw; heat and wetness and reptilian scent; the electric thrill of hearing Scorpius begin to pant and growl like an animal, his hips rising and falling in time with Braca’s movements until he scrambles up from the couch, half-dragging Braca in front of him, the claws of his grip holding him still, one hand fisted in Braca’s hair and the other on his shoulder, and Braca lets himself go, giving himself over to the gravity well of Scorpius’ pleasure. 

Scorpius starts to snarl in earnest as he rides Braca’s tongue, harder and faster until he’s hitting the back of Braca’s throat with each thrust. Braca steadies himself automatically by clutching at Scorpius’ legs, the alien heat in his mouth almost unbearable, becoming painful. His breath whistles through his lungs as he concentrates to keep from pulling away or biting down, tears running down his cheeks to join the spittle from his lips.

Scorpius’ hand in his hair clenches, scraping across his scalp; his hips jerk and shudder. He hisses a word that might be a Scarran curse through gritted teeth as scalding heat floods Braca’s mouth, shooting down his throat, acidic metals and ozone taste snapping through Braca’s senses. Unprepared, Braca can’t stop himself from pulling away; he falls back onto the floor coughing and wheezing, drool and Scorpius’ fluids sliding in wet ropes from his chin. 

“Ah,” Scorpius sighs between breaths, “that.. is unfortunate.”

He reaches down and grasps the front of Braca’s jacket, hauling him to his feet in an easy show of strength despite the ribbons of steam rising from his cranial implant. Braca staggers on legs that want to buckle, groaning.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he croaks. “I - ahh.” 

Scorpius has lowered his free hand to press his palm against Braca’s crotch, cupping him through his trousers. Braca shudders helplessly, unable to stop himself pressing against his Commander’s touch. The scent of Scorpius rises around him; he can still taste him, thick and cloying on his scorched tongue.

“Sir, please.. I..” 

Scorpius leans in until his mouth is beside Braca’s ear. “Next time, Braca, you will do better. I expect.. more.. from my second in command.” His hand moves, slowly. It doesn’t take long: Braca lets out a choked whimper as his orgasm rips through him. It’s almost painful after so long on the edge, cramped and aching inside his clothing. Scorpius pulls his hand away. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-yes, sir. Scorpius,” Braca gasps. Scorpius releases him; he takes two shaking steps backwards and falls onto the couch, his nerves singing and throbbing. Scorpius picks up the leather and metal codpiece and secures it to himself. He reaches out one last time to drag a fingertip along the line of Braca’s jaw, teeth flashing as Braca flinches in response.

“Now, Lieutenant, clean yourself up. And then we will discuss the matter of your promotion.”


End file.
